


Never a Bread Time for a Funeral

by arcamenel_alatariel, brightest_stars, lostinspxce, SandwichBandit, ShortcakeYard



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack, Discord: Bellamione Coven, F/F, Sandwiches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:27:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29929962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcamenel_alatariel/pseuds/arcamenel_alatariel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightest_stars/pseuds/brightest_stars, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinspxce/pseuds/lostinspxce, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandwichBandit/pseuds/SandwichBandit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShortcakeYard/pseuds/ShortcakeYard
Summary: Hermione decides to crash the funeral of Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange and meets a fellow bread lover in the widow's family.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Hermione Granger/Bread
Comments: 11
Kudos: 55





	Never a Bread Time for a Funeral

**Author's Note:**

> A part of a 6 author collab featuring: ded, SandwichBandit, brightest_stars, arcamenel_alatariel, lostinspxce, and ShortcakeYard.

Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, war hero, Golden Girl, and all around "good girl", was acting strangely. First of all, she'd decided to go to the funeral of Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, which was already unexpected. She had arrived in a funeral-appropriate black dress, hair carefully done up in a formal updo, sparse but well-applied makeup on her face. She walked to the front of the rows of chairs arranged for the event, right in front of the portraits of the men, who sneered at her in disdain and looked to be holding back comments only for the sake of the dignity of their own funeral. She sat gracefully, ignoring the look of shock from the snub-nosed pureblood witch she sat beside and placed her beaded bag on her lap.

She waited until everyone else seemed to be seated, the room settling into a somber quiet, and then opened the bag.

From it, she pulled out a full plain loaf of bread in a crinkly plastic package that was incredibly loud in the quiet of the room and drew the attention of literally everyone. Hermione gave no indication that she'd noticed the gasp from her neighbor, working the tie of the package open calmly and opening it up, the plastic crinkling once again. She took out a slice, inspected it and deemed it appropriately bready, and turned to Lady Snub-Nose, silently holding out the slice in offering. The woman's eyes grew wide, expression vacillating wildly between shocked and appalled, and shook her head in what seemed to be terror.

Hermione shrugged. She took a bite of the bread herself and smiled, releasing a quiet but still very audible happy noise in the disbelieving stillness of the room, then turned her attention to the front of the funeral and continued to eat even as the rest of the room continued to stare.

Unsatisfied with the taste of pure, bread-y goodness (if that was even truly possible), Hermione decided to zest up her life--she did deserve it after all, she was a war hero, without her none of this would be possible--with jams. Hermione dug around in her bag and pulled out more ingredients for her sandwich: a knife, a jar of jam, and some particularly hard to find peanut butter. Hermione ignored the icy stares at her and that one bark of laughter, nothing was going to be in between her and her one true love.

Well almost nothing, unfortunately for her, she just couldn’t get the jam jar open with her oily, freshly lotioned, very soft, pampered, and well manicured hands. Completely forgetting she was at a magical funeral and that she could simply use magic to open it, she leaned over and asked the mourner next to her, Lady Snub-Nose if she would open her jar for her.

Lady Snub-Nose made a face, flicked her fan open, and turned away from her.

Jam jars were apparently outside of her skill set. No matter, there was Mr. Fancy Regal-Pants next to her. Hermione turned to the man and gestured to the jar. She ignored the stray cackle from the peanut gallery, they were at a funeral for Merlin’s sake. The man popped open the jar and handed it back to her.

She had forgotten how much jam wasn’t in the jar so she resorted to quietly (and not so quietly) scraping the knife down and around the glass jar for all it was worth to assemble her sandwich.

At long last, the PB&J was created, and Hermione finally sunk her teeth into it, emitting another happy sound. It was divine. There was nothing better, unless you counted visiting the funeral of your enemies, nothing could top it or ruin it for her.

Until she realized that the chuckle she heard was from the widow’s family.

It was a familiar chuckle, so Hermione twisted in her seat, and completely lacking in any sort of subtlety, stared up at the mezzanine level. Lady Snub-Nose glared at her.

The church was so packed with pale, black-clad mourners for the Lestrange brothers that the lesser guests had been shunted up the stairs to where rows of plastic chairs were laid out. The choir and the band, who usually occupied the space, were squished in the narrow aisles between the pews and the walls.

Looking around, Hermione could see many familiar faces from her first six years at school. She twisted further around and knelt up on her chair, peering around for a clue as to who had laughed. This earned her another glare from Lady Snub-Nose, along with a huff of annoyance and particularly sharp elbow to her thigh.

Hermione didn’t mind. She kept munching on her absolutely _delicious_ sandwich. It really was pure perfection. The other mourners really didn’t know what they were missing out on.

Pillowy soft slices of white bread, rich and creamy peanut butter, with that lovely stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth quality to it, and fantastically tart raspberry jam that Molly had gifted her. Hermione really didn’t think she’d ever eaten anything better.

Oh no, she’d allowed herself to get distracted. Now where _was_ the source of that laughter?

Thankfully another cackle echoed throughout the church as Hermione knelt on her front-row chair, displaying her perfect sandwich to the whole congregation.

Spinning her head round, Hermione’s eyes scanned the crowds for any sign of mirth. Quite a few people seemed to be restraining smiles. What odd behaviour for a funeral. Of course, Hermione isn’t sad. The deceased had been the ones who’d tortured Neville’s parents into insanity!

But she’d expected all the Purebloods to be inconsolable, not on the edge of laughter. The Lestrange line was ended with the deaths of Rodolphus and Rabastan.

Hermione furrowed her brow as her eyes settled on a veiled woman whose whole body was shaking with silent hysterical laughter in the second row of the mezzanine gallery. Every few seconds a gasp for breath or a squeak of laughter escaped from beneath the black veil, and occasionally, a throaty chuckle slipped out, too.

Hermione nibbled on her crusts as she stared up at the veiled woman.

Thinking that it was incredibly rude to be so obviously staring and not offer any of her bountiful supply of fluffy, mouth-watering bread, Hermione reached back into her beaded bag. She brought out the jar of peanut butter, knife, and package of bread, quickly untying it once again. Mr. Fancy Regal-Pants looked down and away again with a quick huff, a faint “again” slipping from his lips. Hermione paid him no mind. She was only being polite, after all.

After carefully, tenderly spreading a 4mm layer of peanut butter onto the bread and ever so gently pressing the two pieces together again, she looked up at the woman in the mezzanine. She had stopped laughing, looking intently at what Hermione was doing.

Hermione had just taken out her wand and was about to cast wingardium leviosa when it struck her - _I can’t send this up to her. It has no jam! She’ll think it a terrible slight if I give her a plain peanut butter sandwich while I eat mine with deliciously tart jam._ Coming to her conclusion she held out the, only slightly nibbled upon, PB&J sandwich and began levitating it up to the mezzanine.

Seeing the offering make its way up to her, the veiled woman gasped and leaned (far too far) over the railing. As the ooey gooey delicacy reached the balcony, the veiled woman reached out and snatched it from the air.

Hermione sat there for what seemed like an eternity (it was 5 seconds) before a delighted cackle filled the church. _Oh thank Morgana! She’s pleased with my offering. At least_ someone _in this stuffy funeral has taste! You would have thought with all the money these pureblood families possess that they would at least have an appreciation for easily the best food on all of planet earth. There was a reason there’s a version of bread in every culture!_

Almost a minute of silence passed, other than a slight smacking sound and a few contented sighs coming from both _very classy_ women. Who could blame them for enjoying such delectable treats? Nobody whose opinion this Golden Girl cared about.

Mere moments after Hermione finished her (hopefully first of several) peanut butter sandwiches, a conspiratorial chuckle rang out, quickly followed by a collective gasp from the mourners sitting in the mezzanine. Looking up once more, Hermione saw a paper airplane loop through the air and take a sudden dive toward her face.

Hermione managed to grab the paper airplane just in time to avoid losing an eye, and settled back down into her seat, cradling it in her hands. She unfolded it carefully, ignoring the tuts from Lady Snub-Nose and Mr Fancy Regal-Pants in response to the loud rustling of paper.

There was a short message on the inside, in what could be described as the most elegant handwriting Hermione had ever seen.

_Thank you for the sandwich - is that what those Muggles call a ‘PB &J’? It’s quite delightful. _

_I was surprised to see you here, of all people. Though, admittedly, I was surprised to even be here myself. I suppose, it being a family affair, I had no choice in the matter. Fortunately, watching you has provided me with sufficient entertainment thus far, so I suppose I must thank you for that too._

Hermione chuckled and Lady Snub-Nose shot her yet another glare before scooting her chair a couple of inches away. Hermione pocketed the note and reached into her bag for her own sheet of paper. As the scratching of her quill filled the room, even the portraits of the Lestrange brothers glared and crossed their arms in annoyance. Hermione, of course, paid them no mind.

She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes landing on the veiled woman whose identity still remained a secret. She hadn’t even signed the note. How strange. Hermione shrugged to herself and returned to writing.

_I’m glad you enjoyed the PB &J (yes, that is what they’re called). I must agree with you there; they are delightful. Most people argue over whether the best part is the peanut butter or jam, but it’s obviously the bread. I mean, a PB&J wouldn’t even be possible without bread - it’s the most important part. I’m sure you would agree. Forgive me for the lack of jam on this one - I seem to have run out._

_P.S.You’re a Lestrange?_

Hermione carefully folded the paper into an airplane and made two more peanut butter sandwiches - one for herself and one for the veiled woman. Kneeling on her chair once more, she levitated the two items up to the veiled woman, who accepted them with a happy chuckle.

Minutes later, while Hermione was sitting properly in her chair and munching on her sandwich, another paper airplane landed neatly in her lap. Letting out a squeak of surprise, she dropped her sandwich onto her lap in favour of picking up the note instead.

_Yes, I suppose you do have a point, the bread is the foundation of any good sandwich. Flavours are important, but what good are two different flavours combined without anything to balance them?_

_Unfortunately, yes, I am related to the Lestrange family. On the bright side, we are bonded only by marriage. I am, luckily, a Black by blood._

Hermione spluttered violently, having inhaled a few crumbs after gasping at the last sentence. The veiled woman was a Black?

Hermione’s loud coughs echoed through the church, and a sigh on her right announced Lady Snub-Nose’s annoyance at yet another disturbance. Mr Fancy Regal-Pants on her left seemed to at least take some pity on her and started to awkwardly pat her back, but Hermione paid neither of them any mind.

No, Hermione’s mind was going a million miles a minute, even through her struggle of trying not to choke on the breadcrumbs. She had thought most of the Blacks were vile - many of them had fought for the other side in the War, after all. But if they were able to appreciate this heaven-sent loaf of bready _goodness_ as much as she did, how could they be anything other than her ally? Her friend even?

Before she could try to figure out which Black was hiding underneath that veil, though, Hermione needed to handle something else first. Because there was not a single reason she could think of that was good enough for her sandwich to try and kill her. For it had tried - she just almost choked to death at a funeral, for Merlin’s sake! Perhaps it was jealous. But how could it think that Hermione would ever leave the _blissful_ bread for something or someone else?

Despondently, the Golden Girl looked at the half-eaten peanut butter sandwich in her lap. There was no way she could finish this particular sandwich now that the trust between them, that had once been so strong, had been so cruelly broken. With a heavy sigh she placed it on the ground before her chair, not quite sure what to do with it now that it had betrayed her like that.

For now she saw no other option than to make herself a new peanut butter sandwich - no scratch that, two sandwiches. A look over her shoulder showed Hermione that the mystery Black had finished hers and was looking at her with renewed interest. So, she took out a few new slices of bread and started to gently cover them in a perfect layer of peanut butter.

Suddenly, her attention was drawn to the front of the room, where a man in black robes and a bowler hat gestured to the two coffins. “If anyone wants to give the Lords Lestrange anything to help them on their way to the next world, do so now.”

Oh! Hermione could not let such an opportunity pass. Quickly, she stood up, leaving her bag and half-made sandwiches on her chair, and picked up her half-eaten sandwich. Ignoring the appalled _‘NO!’_ the brothers shouted out, the Golden Girl smiled as she tore the sandwich apart and put the two halves into the coffins. Perhaps now the three of them could chase each other all the way to hell, Merlin knew they deserved it.

Revelling in the cackle that sounded from the mezzanine, Hermione returned to her chair and finished the sandwiches. Placing them gently in her lap, she searched her bag for a new piece of parchment.

Hermione wrote a message back to the veiled woman. With precision she folded the parchment into a plane similar to the one she had just received. She took aim and sent it soaring up to the mezzanine. Alas, a mighty draft in the church sent Hermione’s plane down in a tailspin, careening into the amazed ( _appalled_ ) crowd. A cry was heard as someone clutched the plane in one hand as he covered his injured eye with the other.

Mr. Pirate uttered colourful swears and something about security needing to take the riff raff out of this sacred place.

What Mr. Pirate didn’t know was that she received an owl and was invited to attend and on a whim decided to show.

Hermione summoned the airplane back to her. Although she didn’t want to damage her letter to the mysterious woman, she did think perhaps a ball would be more suited to make it up to the mezzanine. She hurled the paper ball into the air, it would easily make it to its destination.

Then all of a sudden it shifted course and stuck another attendee, who cried out as if they were struck with a bludger. Uncontrolled laughter came from above and stopped as the veiled woman elbowed her sister. The other shook her head in disapproval of her sisters’ antics.

Hermione recalled she could just lift the letter using wingardium leviosa. Magic. Yes she could do magic. She was just so distracted by that one sandwich’s jealous betrayal. She loved it so, and yet in return it betrayed her by going down her windpipe and choking her. It deserved banishment with the Lestrange brothers. May its delicate form be consumed by the fire of Hades.

As for the mysterious veiled woman who was she? Was she the one who sent her the invite to the wonderful funeral asking her to put the _FUN_ back into funerals? It could only be one of the infamous Black sisters but which one? Bellatrix was a Lestrange from her arranged marriage to Rodolphus. Narcissa Malfoy seemed too proper to be cackling at a funeral. Andromeda was disowned from the archaic House of Black for marrying a muggleborn. How was she allowed to be here? Was she invited by her eldest sister for moral support? And why was Hermione even invited in the first place? Didn’t they hate muggleborns? Or maybe there was more to this old family than met the eye? Maybe they all enjoyed the wonder that was _bread_.

The woman lifted her veil, revealing some of her dark curls. It wasn’t Narcissa, Hermione thought slightly bummed. The mysterious woman blew a kiss down at Hermione which derailed her thoughts. Could there be love? The chance at a relationship? Another mother for her beloved daughter Elizabeth “Lizzie” Breadnet? (That reminded Hermione she had to get back home soon to feed her starter.)

The woman finished reading Hermione’s letter as Hermione returned the blown kiss, and Hermione could see a slight smile form.

Before the veiled woman could send a missive back down to Hermione, the whole congregation rose as the Lestrange brothers were slowly carried out of the chapel. As the pall-bearers walked slowly down the aisle, Hermione packed away her sandwich making equipment. Empty jam jar, and a still half full peanut butter jar. Half-empty bread bag, grubby knife.

Luckily, Hermione still had two perfect, fluffy, peanut butter sandwiches to last her the next ten minutes.

Slowly, row by row, the pews emptied, starting with the front row Hermione had seated herself in. She followed Mr Fancy Regal-Pants, who was carrying the portrait of Rabastan high. Hermione munched happily on her sandwich, allowing a few moans of absolute satisfaction at the deliciousness of her snack to slip past her chomping lips. She followed the coffins and the portraits down through the Lestrange estate to the imposing mausoleum.

Chewing slowly on her bread, Hermione could hear the many footsteps behind her as the rest of the mourners came down the gravel path. The mausoleum was large and rectangular, built of big blocks of grey marble, with a curved archway in the centre. The Lestrange crest was above the archway, inscribed with their house words, _semper altius orientem_.

Hermione let out a loud laugh, spraying crumbs at Lady Snub-Nose, who had sidled in front of her, hoping to be one of the few who would fit into the crypt to witness the interment.

_Semper altius orientem_. If Hermione’s knowledge of Latin served her right - which her knowledge always did - the Lestrange words translated to _always rising higher_. Just like dear Lizzie, and the beautiful bread she creates. Always rising higher. Hermione chortled again. Lady Snub-Nose actually _hissed_ at her, but it only made Hermione laugh louder as she followed the pallbearers into the cold, dark mausoleum.

Aha! Hermione had just the solution for this. Munching on her sandwich happily, she pulled the empty jam-jar from her bag, and wordlessly lit it up with her signature bluebell flames. They’re almost as pretty as her second sandwich, waiting patiently in her hand to be eaten.

“It’s nearly your turn, don’t you worry,” Hermione whispered fondly to the sandwich. The jam jar floated up to the centre of the ceiling, lighting the whole mausoleum in dancing blue light, flames shining through the streaks of jam left on the jar.

Hermione grinned, looking around at the mourners who were staring at her in horror. She shoved the last of her first sandwich into her mouth with glee, and she noticed the veiled woman once more.

This time, she was hidden in the shadows of the corner of the building, as far from the door as she could be. Her black garb made her almost invisible. Hermione sidled over to her. The woman’s veiled face turned to her. Slowly, and with exceeding caution, Hermione ripped her last sandwich into two halves, and silently offered one half to the veiled woman to take in her black-gloved hand.

“And just what do you think you are doing, _sister_?” Looking over her shoulder, Hermione spotted Little Miss Snooty, the black-veiled woman who had sat next to her fellow bread-appreciating compatriot.

“Whatever I damn well please, _sissy_.” Hermione could practically feel the eyeroll behind the intricately embroidered black lace veil. With a mocking flourish the (very sensible) Black sister raised her half of the sandwich up to her mouth, lifting the damnable face covering only just enough to slide her hand behind it.

“You may be free of that cursed marriage bond,” Little Miss Snooty huffed, “and Salazar knows that it is good to have my sister back under her own free will once more. That doesn’t mean, however, that you should make a _scene_ at the wretch’s funeral.”

Looking curiously between the two apparent sisters, Hermione’s mind raced as she put the pieces together. Marriage bond? As far as she knew Rabastan was a bachelor, so this must be none other than Rodolphus’ wife--widow. This glorious, fire-brand of a dough devotee was none other than the notorious Bellatrix Lestrange, née Black, the woman who had carved “mudblood” into her left arm, like her own perverse version of a dark mark. And yet she, of all people, was a fellow fermentation follower. Was this enough to atone for the atrocities she had committed over the years? What further proof did she knead?

“Don’t break that pretty brain of yours trying to think too hard, pet, it would be a shame if I had to miss your delicious sandwiches in the future.” Hermione could not see the smirk, but she could practically hear the way it was probably sitting smugly on the Black sister’s, presumably Bellatrix’s, face.

“You’re- You’re Bellatrix?” Hermione lightly stammered. She wasn’t sure how to proceed politely, but couldn’t keep in the questions that were popping up in her mind. “Were you the one to send me my invitation? And what is that marriage bond you were just talking about? How does that work?”

A loud shush came from deeper into the crypt and Little Miss Snooty - _Narcissa then perhaps?_ Hermoine thought- looked at her with an annoyed sort of disdain as well. Bellatrix, however, chuckled at the barrage of questions and didn’t pay attention to anybody else at the mausoleum, although she did respond at a slightly hushed tone.

“Yes to the first two questions,” she started, “and while marriage bonds differ slightly between families and unions, it basically means that the husband owns the wife and he needs to be obeyed. Now that our _dearly beloved_ Roddie is dead, may he rot in peace, our marriage bond was automatically dissolved, and I am finally free to do what I want. So I invited you to taunt him, and you have not disappointed in any way.”

Bellatrix turned her head, causing the bluebell flames to light her face in such a way that Hermione could partially see the stunning smirk that resided there. Then suddenly the smirk disappeared and her head dropped a bit further, as if looking at the ground. At the same time, the scar on Hermione’s forearm started prickling lightly, and instinctively her other hand reached out to cover the scar, even though it was already hidden from sight by the long sleeves of her black dress.

“I also wanted to apologise for what happened at the Manor last year. If I hadn’t been forced by the bond, it would never have happened.”

Hermione still couldn’t see Bellatrix’s eyes, but her voice sounded so sincere that she couldn’t help but believe her show of remorse. And it did help her dilemma quite a bit: now that she knew that all the crimes committed by the eldest Black sister were controlled by her late husband, she could focus on the woman’s obvious love for the doughy goodness called bread.

Speaking of the Devil, the alarm Hermione set on her wand to remind her that she needed to feed her starter went off, startling everyone inside the crypt with a song about the marvellous breadfish. The Golden Girl scrambled to get her wand out of its holster on her arm and turned it off. With a sheepish smile, she turned to Bellatrix.

“I forgive you, but I actually really need to get home to feed Lizzie. If you want to, you can come with me? We could talk some more, eat some proper PB&J’s with more of Molly’s delicious jams?”

“Lizzie is your cat?” Bellatrix asked, sounding a bit puzzled. “But why not? This funeral’s as good as over, and I don’t want to stay.”

Hermione ignored Narcissa’s disappointed huff, and took the eldest Black sister’s hand in preparation to travel to her apartment.

“No, Lizzie is my starter. I bake all my bread myself, to make sure they get the love and care they deserve. Oh! Maybe you can help me get started on creating Mr. Yeasty to keep Lizzie company when I’m not there!”

Hermione grinned at the cackle Bellatrix let out, and disapparated the both of them out of the crypt.

**Author's Note:**

> Did this not terrify you? Are you, in fact, intrigued and would like to be part of more ridiculous shenanigans? Join us on Discord:[Linky link to the Bellamione Coven discord](http://bit.ly/breadmione)


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